


Mornings After

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Morning After, Morning Sex, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:39:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after Dr. Whale and Mary Margaret's one night stand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mornings After

Whale doesn't know how he got here, but he isn't about to complain. Somehow, in the space of a day, he’s gone from sitting at the top of Mary Margaret’s shit list to sitting beside her naked in his bed. 

He looks on the floor beside him, trying to make sure he isn't dreaming. Yep, there’s the used condom tied up beside the trash can, where he threw it afterwards and missed. There are his pants and her sexier-than-expected purple thong on the floor. Her pink cardigan twisted up with his hastily discarded tie. 

Yeah, this happened. 

She’s still fast asleep, her impossibly long eyelashes fanned against her skin. He’s always found her attractive, but now, and especially after last night, he’s realized how perfect she is. He doesn't know why it took him so long to do anything about it; for some reason, right around the time that Emma chick came into town, it’s like he woke up, started noticing what was around him; and the first thing he’d noticed was… Mary Margaret. It’s not every girl he asks out on an actual date, but she’d warranted one. But tired after an unexpectedly long day at the hospital, and with his ADHD kicking in overtime, he’d screwed it up, like he always does.

He knows he’s an asshole, and so does she. But what she can’t possibly know is that she’s the only person to whom he’s ever apologized. Given where they've now ended up, he thinks maybe he should start apologizing more often.

She begins to stir, turning from her side to her back. The sheets shift around her, exposing the tops of her pale breasts, and one of those pink nipples, just as kissable as her lips. When her vision settles, she gasps, drawing the sheet practically up to her neck as she looks around her and remembers where she is. He can see the regret, the embarrassment, already pooling behind those lovely eyes.

_Damn._

He’s done this too many times not to know what’s coming next: mentions of the time, made-up appointments, empty promises, back-to-back dressing, awkward goodbyes. He doesn't want to do that. Not today, not with her.

“Morning,” he whispers with a smile that he hopes looks as genuine as he feels, instead of sleazy. _Please don’t freak out,_ he thinks.

“Hi,” she says shyly. The sad, pretty little school-marm is back. And he likes the school-marm, likes her a lot, but he got an unexpected taste of someone else last night, someone who seemed to surprise Mary Margaret herself—a quietly take-charge type who was sarcastically funny and hot as fucking sin—and well, he wants to make sure that wasn't a dream, too.

So, before the familiar morning-after game can start, he leans down and kisses her. She freezes in surprise at first, and doesn't quite kiss him back; he can feel the war she’s fighting with herself in the way her hands hover and twitch around his back, fingertips pressing and then retracting from his skin, indecisive about whether she’s going to push him away or grip him tight. 

He can tell she needs something else, something convincing, or the coin will flip to tails. He stops kissing her and lifts his head so he can look at her, brush her bangs out of her eyes. He kisses each lid, slowly, reverently. She calms down at that, but remains stiff underneath him.

“How’s your head?” he asks, remembering how much they’d had to drink.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “So far. We’ll see when I stand up.”

“Well, let me know if it hurts. You know, I _am_ a doctor.”

The joke seems to do it—more successful than the kiss—because her body relaxes under him as she laughs, and her whole face brightens, dimples puckering. “I think I’ll be able to handle it.”

“You’re really good to wake up to, you know that?” And he means it.

She blushes, a deep pink that goes all the way to the tips of her elfin ears. 

“I never do this,” she confesses softly, embarrassed again, but no longer stiff. 

“I’m glad you made an exception.” He takes advantage of her present relaxation to position himself more securely on top of her, elbows splayed out on either side of her shoulders. Under the sheet, her knees fall outward, making room for him to settle between them. He rubs the pad of his thumb against the palm of one of her hands, kneading her into comfort, and twines his fingers between hers. For some reason, _this_ is what gets her lips to part, her breath to quicken. 

She arches up and kisses him.

He thinks there’s a lot he could learn about women from Mary Margaret. 

She’s soft but insistent, almost as she was last night, her quick tongue darting between his lips. The sheet shifts slightly down her body as he squirms on top of her. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says when he can’t take it anymore, and breaks the kiss so he can shimmy down and take one small, pert breast in his mouth. She moans prettily when his tongue flicks against her nipple, again and again. He moves his lips to the other one, but keeps rolling the first around in the remnant saliva between his thumb and index finger; her moans turn into nonsense words. He’s given up trying to control his erection, which now dampens the sheet. 

Her hands finally come up to rest on his shoulder blades. So gently that he can’t be quite sure she’s doing it, she presses the skin downwards—a movement he wants to interpret as asking for more, for something he never does, has never cared about anyone enough to do.

Maybe this isn’t even what she’s asking for, but it doesn’t matter; he figures if she can make an exception for him, he can make one for her. 

He rocks his hips up and back, and is gratified by the little whine that escapes her at the loss of the pressure and warmth of his body. Her eyes are dark and lust-blown, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so simultaneously sexy and cute.

“Do you want this?” he asks, feeling like he ought to check. The way she grabs his head with both hands and arches herself up to kiss him is answer enough.

He shimmies down the length of the bed so his forehead rests on her stomach, tongue taking a quick lap around her navel. He licks a long, teasing stripe of the sheet where he knows her pussy is, and is glad he did laundry this week. The wet cloth tastes like detergent and sunshine—tastes like her—and sticks against her own wetness. He licks again, pressing more than swiping, and smiles when he feels her grappling for purchase in the sheets.

“I… I…” She’s too proud to beg, and he decides he doesn’t want to make her, so he rips down the sheet, removing the barrier between them. He thrusts two fingers in and out of her and sucks hungrily at her clit as she disintegrates around him.

He hasn’t been this hard in longer than he can remember (actually, he can’t remember _ever_ having been this hard), and starts wondering why he doesn’t do this more often.

It isn’t long before she’s convulsing, her fingers tangled in his hair. “Oh god, oh god,” she moans. And then, gorgeously, _hilariously_ , as she comes, spasming upwards, she cries out, “Dr. Whale! Oh god, Dr. Whale…”

He can’t help himself; he laughs right into her, the gusts of air finishing her off as his fingers slow inside her. 

“Dr. Whale?” he asks with a sidelong smirk. “Do you always this formal when you come?” 

She’s flushed again, but this time it’s real heat, and not just embarrassment. “I realized… I don’t actually know your first name. Oh god. I just slept with you… twice… and I don’t even know your name. What am I doing? I don’t know who I am anymore.”

She’s starting to freak out, and he can tell he’ll need to work on her all over again to keep her from running away from this. He shuts her up with a kiss before she can protest any further. It takes a minute for her to open up to him again, but she does, and the scare passes. 

When she’s finally calm around him, he says, “It’s Peter, by the way. But by all means, keep calling me Dr. Whale. That was surprisingly hot.”

There’s a terrifying pause as she gazes seriously up at him, but finally she giggles. “Your ego, _Peter_ , is breathtaking,” she says in a teasing tone that makes him audibly groan with want. Then she rolls him over and kicks the sheets off the bed completely in her haste to straddle him. As if realizing that he might literally die if his dick doesn’t get some attention soon, she slides her hand between them and grabs him firmly, her thumb massaging the head of his cock. He knows he must be making the world’s stupidest face, but he doesn’t care.

She’s back: the sweet tigress from last night.

As she guides his cock to slide along her still-soaked center, he reaches up to hold onto her breasts, as if they’re rocks to steady him. She leans over his face, obligingly, and lets him lick first one, then the other, resting his nose intermittently in-between. 

Her lips tickle his ear when she asks, “Where do you keep…?”

“Here. One minute.” He reaches for the night-table. 

“No, no, I’ll get it. Just… sit up.”

There’s something about her that makes him listen when she gives a command. Must be the school teacher in her… or something else… He sits as requested, ass on his ankles and his feet a pillow’s distance from the headboard. “Bossy. I like it.”

“Hush.” She rips open the condom wrapper and rolls it on, looking at him so serenely that he nearly comes undone from her eyes and fingers alone. 

“What do you want?” he asks hoarsely.

“Lean back.”

She climbs on top of his knees, straddling him. His head rests behind him on the top of the headboard and his fists plunge into the mattress for balance. 

“Mary Margaret,” he whines. She may have been too proud to beg, but he isn’t.

“Dr. Whale,” she drawls teasingly, giggling sweetly against his neck. 

Without warning, she slips him inside her.

He curves one hand under the round of her ass check to hold her steady against him and lets her do all the work, as that seems to be what she’s looking for. It isn’t long before he’s panting into her bobbing shoulder, practically biting to keep from crying out as he comes. Her name’s too long, and he ends up simply mumbling syllables beginning with the letter M.

He scoops her in his arms and rolls them forward and down, where they fall side by side, heads at the foot of the bed. 

“That was fantastic,” he says.

“I think I needed that.”

“We _all_ need that. I know what else you need, too.”

“What’s that?” she asks.

“Breakfast. I make a mean egg scramble.”

She looks at him for a long time, probably figuring out how rarely he makes that kind of offer. “That sounds nice,” she answers.

He tosses her a teeshirt and hospital scrubs that he knows will be adorably too long on her, and heads to the kitchen. He’s already thinking of what kinds of flowers to buy.


End file.
